Incompatibility
by MooseBlanket
Summary: Oliver has a rough week when he is suddenly outed to the whole world, including his very unimpressed teammates. As if this wasn't enough, he and Charlie are also forced to take a close look at their relationship since sometimes, love just isn't enough. Rated M for Quidditch players' filthy language.


**A/N: There's not enough Charlie/Oliver on this site so I thought I'd add to it with this angsty oneshot! One of the things that IMO makes Oliver and Charlie such a great couple is their passion for what they do. Paradoxically, this is also one of their biggest obstacles as a couple, and I explored that idea here.** **Please read and review :)**

Oliver Wood collapsed front forward onto his couch, grimacing as he received a face full of cushion. He sighed and shut his eyes in relief. It had been one hell of a week. Then he stiffened, rolling over onto his back and scowling ferociously at the ceiling. It had been one _hell_ of a week.

Exactly one week ago Puddlemere had won their first match against the Appleby Arrows, and like the rest of his team, Oliver had been overjoyed. Bursting out of the locker rooms, he'd spied his boyfriend, Charlie Weasley, grinning broadly and waiting to congratulate him. "We won!" shouted Oliver, grabbing his shoulders and giving him an ecstatic, victorious kiss. A kiss which a reporter had happened to witness.

Oliver ran a hand over his face. The consequences had been immense.

First there had been his teammates. He'd entered the locker room as usual the next day with his team. Quickly stripping off his shirt, Oliver began reaching for his Quidditch robes when he felt eyes on him. Turning slowly around, he noticed that he was the only one who had made a move to get changed, the others either staring at him with open hostility or looking awkwardly away.

"Something wrong, fellas?" said Oliver as casually as he could. He looked at Bryce next to him, one of the chasers, who shrugged his shoulders and moved a couple steps further down the bench, avoiding Oliver's eyes. Oliver swallowed. "Alrighty then," he said and started unbuckling his belt.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Oliver looked up and found himself staring at Belford, one of the Beaters.

"Getting changed into my Quidditch gear," replied Oliver coolly. "You might want to think about doing the same, Damien will be here at any minute."

"Yeah, you'd like that wouldn't you? No way am I taking my clothes off in front of a faggot like you!"

He saw Bryce wince, and a couple of the other players started avoiding his eyes with somehow even more vigour.

"We don't want you checking us out," said Harvey, the other Beater.

"Oh please," snapped Oliver. "Like I'd be wanting to check out an ugly sod like you! Get over it already!"

Harvey looked like he didn't know whether to be relieved or offended, and a couple of the players chuckled slightly.

At that moment Damien, their Captain, poked his head around the door. "You guys ready? Come on, why isn't anyone changed yet? Get a move on, I need to talk strategy with you boys."

The others hurriedly moved to get changed, except for Belford, who snarled, "Eyes to yourself, Fairy-boy!" One of the other players nudged Belford in the shoulder and told him to get on with it before Oliver could respond, and Oliver was heartened.

Apart from a few awkward glances sent his way, practice continued largely as usual. All except Belford who, disgusted by the passive response from his team, began shooting his bludgers wholly at Oliver.

"Not a bad play there, Belford," said Damien after the first time. "But it might have been a better strategic move to target the defensive chaser there instead."

"Anyone would think Wood had done something to upset you," laughed Damien after the third time.

"OI! Give it a bloody rest, would you?" roared Oliver after the fifth bludger went whistling past so close to his head that he could feel it brushing his hair and heard the whooshing in his ear.

"How long were you planning on deceiving us, huh?" bellowed Belford in response. "You fucking queer, you probably shove your broomstick up your arse. Is that why you play Quidditch? So you can perve on us in the locker room? You're sick, you — "

He was forced to break off as he narrowly avoided the lunge Oliver made for him.

"Faggot," taunted Belford, rising higher in the air.

"ENOUGH!" Damien appeared before them, looking incensed. "Everyone on the ground, now!"

"Alright, what the fuck is going on?" demanded Damien when everyone was gathered around him on the ground.

"Kick this faggot off the team, Damo," said Belford. "He probably—"

"Shut up," interrupted Damien sharply. "Shut the fuck up now. I'm not kicking anyone off the team unless I think they're a shit flyer or are letting down the rest of the team."

"He is! I —"

"Stop. You're on the bench for the next two matches."

"What?! Why am I the one on the bench?"

"Because you spent the whole fucking practice hitting bludgers at the keeper instead of actually doing what I said! We need team players, we need unity, we need a cohesive strategy. Wood's part of our team and he's a damn good flyer. We all are. And if you're not supporting him you're going against the team, and that's when we're going to lose."

"Supporting him? Come on Damien, he probably only joined the team so he could check us out in the showers!"

"Belford, you're dreaming if you think anyone's going to check out your ugly mug."

"That's what I said," murmured Oliver as a couple of the players laughed.

"We all sorted?" There was a general murmur of agreement, and one or two of the players even clapped Oliver on the back. "Good. Back in the air, everyone. Not you, Belford."

"Thank you," muttered Oliver to Damien as he mounted his broom.

"Wood, I don't give a shit what you stick up your arse in your free time, fly well and you've got no problems with me."

Oliver nodded, expression caught somewhere between a grimace and a smile. That was their captain for you: blunt, crude, but very effective.

Then there had been his parents, whom Oliver had been meaning to tell but somehow had never quite found the words. Now he knew why.

It could have been a lot worse, he reflected. Really, they'd taken it quite well. His mother had smiled and hugged him, telling him that they both loved him no matter what. It was a smile which didn't quite reach her eyes and the crease between her eyebrows said everything wasn't as okay as it appeared, but Oliver knew her words were genuine, and for that he was grateful.

His father had simply seemed bewildered. "But you can't be gay," he kept saying. "You're a Quidditch player!"

Oliver winced. "No reason I can't be both, Dad," he'd said as lightly as he could.

"But you're not a fairy! I mean, you're a real bloke, on the field and off. None of this pink, limp-wristed shit! Come on, let's go hit a few bludgers around then grab a pint, hey? Knock this nonsense out of you."

His mother's expression had been pained when she'd seen him out. "I'll talk to him," she promised as she shut the door.

"Sure thing Mum," Oliver said to the cold metal doorknob.

Charlie's parents had been lovely, of course. Apparently Mrs Weasley had hugged Charlie tightly, said that of course she'd had her suspicions but it was nice to finally hear it coming from him. Mr Weasley had clapped him on the back and said they both loved him no matter what. His siblings had immediately started grilling Charlie for details, all smiles as they asked about him and Oliver.

"I had no idea Oliver was gay," said Ginny, looking slightly crestfallen.

"Best not let Harry know about your secret crush on Oliver," George had grinned, nudging her in the ribs.

"Oh please," scoffed Ginny. "I think every girl in Gryffindor had a crush on him at one point; it was practically a rite of passage."

She laughed as the smile fell from George's face. "I'll have to confirm that with Angie," he said.

Mrs Weasley had insisted Oliver join them for dinner, and Charlie had passed on the invitation, looking pleased but slightly embarrassed. "They're all pretty excited," he admitted. "Mum says it's about time I started dating someone instead of dedicating everything to dragons like some weird… dragon-monk." He laughed, shaking his head at the memory and Oliver had smiled and said of course he'd come, forcing down the surge of jealousy that had threatened to bubble up.

"Yeah, could have been worse," said Oliver, when asked how his parents took it. "Not too bad," he'd said when they asked about his teammates. He wondered how it was for Charlie at the dragon reserve. "Should be alright," said Charlie, before he'd left. "They're mostly pretty chill about that sort of thing there, as long as I look after the dragons the rest doesn't really matter." And then he'd left, vanishing in a puff of green Floo Powder.

Oliver reached around behind him and retrieved the cushion from underneath his head, instead hugging it to his chest.

It hadn't been a happy goodbye. Oliver couldn't believe that Charlie was vanishing yet again, especially right when he was going through such a rough time with everyone else. "A bit of support would be nice," he'd told Charlie angrily.

"You want to talk to me about support?" Charlie was incredulous. "Do you realise what it costs me every time I come out here? Do you realise the sacrifice I'm making for you, how much I'm missing at the dragon reserve? I'm basically putting my career on hold for you, while you refuse to miss even a single training session in the _off_ season! I'm giving up everything and you're giving up nothing, and now you want to sit there and tell me I'm not doing enough!"

"I'm just saying—"

"You're the reason things have fallen apart like this! We kept things quiet because _you_ didn't want the tabloids to get ahold of it because _you_ didn't want any distractions from Quidditch! And now that things have blown up I'm supposed to drop everything? You have no one to blame but yourself!"

It was a low blow. "You think the reactions would be any different if this had come out earlier? Face it, you got lucky, I didn't. Don't you dare try and pin this all on me!"

"I got lucky? At least I'm not sitting there making you choose between Quidditch and me! Why am I the only one making sacrifices?"

"What exactly do you want me to do about it, Charlie? I can't move to Romania."

"And I can't move to England!"

"Well then I guess we've got a problem, don't we?"

Charlie opened his mouth, then closed it again. Oliver had said the words out of anger, but now he felt the full force of them hit him as the couple stared at each other. The silence felt deafening, and Oliver wished they'd start yelling at each other again. Neither of them knew what to say. The future of their relationship stretched precariously between them as though perched on a tightrope; safe for the moment as long as no one said anything. A sound from one of them, an acknowledgment, and everything would be over.

"So what now?" said Charlie finally, quietly.

Oliver exhaled shakily. "I don't know."

"Oliver, I can't keep doing this."

"I know."

And he did. It was a problem they'd avoided discussing for as long as possible, but now it was here and it was inevitable. He'd always known it was going to end this way. They both had.

He looked at Charlie, who forced a smile. "When we're both old men," began Charlie. "And you're retired from Quidditch, and I'm too old to be chasing after dragons, maybe then we can give it a shot."

Oliver laughed weakly. "Sounds like a plan."

"Alright then." Charlie made his way over to the fireplace. They stared at each other, lost for words. Oliver supposed they should probably embrace one last time, but he honestly didn't think he could. There was a pressure in his chest and his throat was constricted, and he knew once he held Charlie he wouldn't be able to let go for a very long time. Charlie seemed to feel the same because he turned away abruptly. Oliver sniffed as Charlie blinked furiously, took a pinch of floo powder, stepped into the grate and was gone.

Gone. Oliver hugged the cushion tightly to his chest, then looked down as though suddenly aware of what he was doing. He glanced at the fireplace then forced his eyes away, throwing the cushion angrily at the firescreen, where it connected with a clatter.

It had been one hell of a week.


End file.
